Worst. Date. Ever.

What, you expected me to talk about the SOTU? If you must know my thoughts on it, I steer you toward William Saletan in Slate, Paul Krugman in the NY Times, Molly Ivins at Alternet, and David Corn of The Nation.

Anyway, I thought you could use a break from all the political nonsense.

A few years ago, I met a very cute guy at the New York City gay pride parade. Not only was he cute, he was working on his PhD at an Ivy League school.

Now, the following weekend, I happened to be dog-sitting for a close friend. The guy -- let's call him Jason D. -- no, that's too obvious, um, J. Doe -- gave me a call. I told him I was taking care of some dogs and said if he wanted he'd be welcome to come over and hang out with me and the pooches and enjoy my friends' big-screen TV.

Now, saying, "Eh, I'd rather do something else" would have been a perfectly acceptable answer. Honestly. But it was kind of a test. The kind of guy who would like to hang out and play with dogs is my kind of boyfriend. And he accepted.

So, he showed up at my friends' apartment, came in, promptly kicked off his shoes, put his feet on the coffee table, picked up the remote and turned on a Yankees' game. (Okay, the fact that he wanted to watch a ballgame was kind of hot.) Then he took off his backpack and pulled out a stack of papers from the course he was TA'ing and proceeded to grade them.

At one point he said, "Are there any band-aids here?" I said, "Well, probably in the bathroom." He said, "I have one on my thumb from a paper cut that's about to come off." So I went in search of a bandage.

Then he asked for a backrub while he watched the game and read papers. I tried to get conversation going, but he said, "I'm sorry, I kind of have to concentrate here." Oh-kay...

Now, as some of my friends might attest, I give pretty good backrubs. After I gave him a good work-over, he asked if I would massage his scalp. Fine. Then he asked if I would do his feet. "I think the dogs need to be walked," I said.

My friends have a cute little pug and the bestest pitbull in the whole wide world. I know, when I write "pitbull" everyone shudders, but seriously, Maza is a throw-pillow with legs. I have never in my life known a more pliable, docile dog, and that includes three golden retrievers my family's had. (She has also perfected the art of passive-aggressiveness, but I digress.)

So Jason -- I mean, J. -- took the pug, and I walked the pit ('cuz he was a big pussy). We hadn't gone very far before a cute young neighborhood boy came up and politely asked if he could pet the dogs. I said sure, and the dogs certainly didn't object. "What's your name?" I asked. "Jose," he responded. Then I introduced myself, the dogs, and my friend. Jose went on his way.

"Wow," said my date. "You're a lot friendlier than I am." Oh-kay...

Back at the apartment, I phoned in a delivery order for dinner and fed the dogs. My friends' dogs observe a certain pre-dining ritual. The pug runs around in circles going, "Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ka-choo!" and the pitbull sits and whines like she hasn't seen food in a week. I typically ignore the pug and play along with the pitbull, feigning sympathy and saying, "Aw, poor baby's so hungry, doesn't mommy feed you? Aw, Uncle Andy's got some food here for you, just be patient," etc.

So I feed the dogs, come out of the kitchen, and J. says, "You talk to them...like they're people." Oh-kay...how do you want me to talk to them? Would you prefer it if I barked? Because, I can.

The buzzer rang and food arrived. J. did not get up from the sofa. So, I answered the door and paid the delivery guy. J. still did not get up. I brought the food into the kitchen, and still he sat there watching TV. So I brought him his dinner.

Now, as regular readers might know, at the time I was suffering from a bout of acid reflux that ended my career aspirations as a singer. Prescription medication had actually made me feel worse, and at this point I had recently abandoned Prilosec for a regimen of acupuncture and herbal medicine. Some of the herbs needed to be taken with food, so before I sat down to eat I swallowed a handful of pills.

"What's that," he asked lasciviously, licking his lips and arching one eyebrow. "Herbal viagra?"

"Um...no," I said, irritated.

So we finished dinner -- the Yankees lost -- and suddenly he turns, puts his hand on my crotch and says, "So..."

It was time to bring out the heavy artillery. And not in the way he thought. I said, "You know, I've had a really good time tonight, and I think you're a nice person, so I'd like to take this slow, if that's okay."

"Oh...sure...," he said, looking puzzled. "So, um, what do you feel like doing?"

"Actually, I'm kind of tired. I think I should walk the dogs again and then just call it a night." So the dogs and I graciously accompanied him to the subway station. I managed to avoid hugging him by keeping one leash in each hand. "So, I guess...I'll call you?" he said.

"Sure," I said, staring at my feet, looking vaguely off to the right. "If you want."

When I got back to the apartment, I noticed he'd left the old band-aid wadded up on the coffee table.